Poop Poop Poop Poop Poop
I don’t ask for a lot of free time in the morning. I just want enough scream-free time to eat my breakfast at a quasi-leisurely pace. Then I want to do the dishes. I can’t forget to water the plants. Maybe fold that basket of laundry that’s been growing ever more crinkled in the bedroom for the past three days. A little time with the newspaper would be nice…
I can’t get anything done if the kids don’t give me some peace. Usually Abbie plays nicely after breakfast, requiring my intervention only when she lodges herself behind a piece of furniture or starts drawing on the wall. The twins do pretty well for 8-month-olds, but they still have the independent play skills of 8-month-olds. They do okay with an activity for several minutes, and then I have to move them to a different activity when they start complaining. Eventually I have to grab Ian who’s climbing over his brother in an attempt to reach another activity, and severely infuriating him in the process.
I could work quicker if everyone let me concentrate on my chores instead of forcing me to bounce around the house herding them toward suitable entertainment, giving us more time to play outside. I think they have to grasp object permanence, though, before understanding an abstract concept like “be quiet, let daddy work, and we’ll be outside and eating grass sooner.”
Usually their complaining requires minor work on my part to redirect someone, but yesterday they found a new way to keep me busy for longer stretches: Pooping. It started soon after everyone woke at 8am. I was feeding the boys when Abbie wandered up to me with a poopy diaper. If this had happened a couple months ago, I would have let Abbie sit in her mess for a few minutes while I finished feeding the boys because few things irritate a baby more than an interrupted meal. I remember when Abbie was their age, if she were in a high chair, you’d better be actively feeding her because otherwise she will meltdown.
As you would have learned from yesterday’s post if you had the stomach to finish it, Abbie no longer sits in a poopy diaper. If she thinks she’s dirty, she will poke her fingers around the contents just to be sure, and then desperately start looking for surfaces to wipe her fingers. So I changed her immediately. The boys, perhaps still a bit groggy, took the break well, waiting silently until I changed Abbie’s diaper. And pants.
I finished feeding the boys, gave Abbie her cereal, and returned to change the boys. Tory was poopy; no big deal since I was changing them anyway. I just had to spend a little extra time cleaning.
With the boys smelling like an unscented wipe again, I returned to Abbie, gave her her milk, and sat down to my breakfast around 9am. I had to redirect the boys a couple times before slurping the last of my milk. As I set down the bowl, Abbie wandered up to me with poop in hand. And also on her, well, use your imagination. I took another break from my morning routine to clean and change her. After letting her return to chasing the dog, I checked the boys, and this time Ian was poopy. I took care of him, washed my hands, and started work on the dishes.
I spent the next 45 minutes bouncing around the house, loading a dish here and moving an unhappy child there, until finishing in the kitchen around 10am. I joyously hoisted my babies into the air, ready to take everyone outside. Then I noticed Tory was poopy. That gave the children a combined five poops in two hours, and only once did anyone have the decency to coordinate a poop with a sibling. I cleaned Tory, washed my hands for the fourth diaper-related reason that morning, and hauled everyone outside. I took my newspaper with me because I deserved a little treat after dealing with that much poop.
I can’t get anything done if the kids don’t give me some peace. Usually Abbie plays nicely after breakfast, requiring my intervention only when she lodges herself behind a piece of furniture or starts drawing on the wall. The twins do pretty well for 8-month-olds, but they still have the independent play skills of 8-month-olds. They do okay with an activity for several minutes, and then I have to move them to a different activity when they start complaining. Eventually I have to grab Ian who’s climbing over his brother in an attempt to reach another activity, and severely infuriating him in the process.
I could work quicker if everyone let me concentrate on my chores instead of forcing me to bounce around the house herding them toward suitable entertainment, giving us more time to play outside. I think they have to grasp object permanence, though, before understanding an abstract concept like “be quiet, let daddy work, and we’ll be outside and eating grass sooner.”
Usually their complaining requires minor work on my part to redirect someone, but yesterday they found a new way to keep me busy for longer stretches: Pooping. It started soon after everyone woke at 8am. I was feeding the boys when Abbie wandered up to me with a poopy diaper. If this had happened a couple months ago, I would have let Abbie sit in her mess for a few minutes while I finished feeding the boys because few things irritate a baby more than an interrupted meal. I remember when Abbie was their age, if she were in a high chair, you’d better be actively feeding her because otherwise she will meltdown.
As you would have learned from yesterday’s post if you had the stomach to finish it, Abbie no longer sits in a poopy diaper. If she thinks she’s dirty, she will poke her fingers around the contents just to be sure, and then desperately start looking for surfaces to wipe her fingers. So I changed her immediately. The boys, perhaps still a bit groggy, took the break well, waiting silently until I changed Abbie’s diaper. And pants.
I finished feeding the boys, gave Abbie her cereal, and returned to change the boys. Tory was poopy; no big deal since I was changing them anyway. I just had to spend a little extra time cleaning.
With the boys smelling like an unscented wipe again, I returned to Abbie, gave her her milk, and sat down to my breakfast around 9am. I had to redirect the boys a couple times before slurping the last of my milk. As I set down the bowl, Abbie wandered up to me with poop in hand. And also on her, well, use your imagination. I took another break from my morning routine to clean and change her. After letting her return to chasing the dog, I checked the boys, and this time Ian was poopy. I took care of him, washed my hands, and started work on the dishes.
I spent the next 45 minutes bouncing around the house, loading a dish here and moving an unhappy child there, until finishing in the kitchen around 10am. I joyously hoisted my babies into the air, ready to take everyone outside. Then I noticed Tory was poopy. That gave the children a combined five poops in two hours, and only once did anyone have the decency to coordinate a poop with a sibling. I cleaned Tory, washed my hands for the fourth diaper-related reason that morning, and hauled everyone outside. I took my newspaper with me because I deserved a little treat after dealing with that much poop.
posted by Matt at
11:39 PM
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